I

In the morning we come five minutes early
to light one up for the day ahead
and we do so walled in by bushes
under the upright fig tree.

I look into his smiling face,
and steps retreating back to me,
as his cigarette butt fuses out
under the shade of the fig tree.

We smoke waving our colleagues,
free for the day, goodbye at the bus stop.
The sun goes down and here we stand,
under no shade and yet accustomed,
below the fig tree.

II

The fig tree has withered and its shadow
traces its branches on the ground.
Its bark has split open and broken off.
Its rusty leaves crack under the shoes
that stub the cigarettes out.

The fig tree smokes a pack every day
and is receding, its color gray as its shade,
and skin thick as its dried bearings.

I don’t see them from my stop anymore.
Perhaps they’ve stopped smoking.
The tree is still here, dull and leveled.